Their Best Man
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: This began as a one-shot which evolved into a multi-parted story and portrays a few scenes from "His Last Vow" which I found were missing in the episode. Not Johnlock, contains spoilers for Season 3.
1. After the Shooting

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

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This story contains massive spoilers for _His Last Vow_.

I loved the episode but felt that something was missing after Sherlock collapsed in 221B, a notion which was shared by a friend and probably many others,

so here goes. I'm not a native English speakers, so I apologize for any mistakes.

**Update January 14:**

Okay, err... somehow, this story wasn't finished, and now it's evolved into a little fic with several parts (three, so far). It starts after the shooting and the original one-shot is now part 2. Sorry if I'm confusing you!

Enjoy!

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For _Prothoe_

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**Their Best Man**

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Part 1: After the Shooting

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...no...

...no. Didn't...

...something...

...tired. Eyes too, wouldn't open...

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Something was weighing him down. Sherlock became aware that this had bothered him for a while, yet there hadn't been any apparent shift from sleeping to being awake. He was bone-tired, and something seemed to be lying across his body. Redbeard, probably, although he wasn't allowed in the bed. Didn't matter, Sherlock decided, he was glad that his dog was with him. He didn't even realize that his eyes were closing again.

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Gradually, he registered things; a hand clutching his own, warm, dry, papery. His dad. There was a noise which he eventually recognized as his own name being said, and the voice confirmed his first assumption: it was his dad who was there. Why? He didn't know. He was ever so tired.

_Sherlock_.

The voice wouldn't give up. With an effort, he blinked his eyes open; his father's outline was blurry at first.

"Sherlock," he said, and then his hand was on Sherlock's face. He was trembling, heaven knew why, as was his voice. "Can you hear me?"

Stupid question.

"Of course," was what he meant to say, though it came out as a croak because his throat was unpleasantly dry.

"Are you in pain?"

Interesting. Something must have happened, something other than an overdose, because there was no reproval in his father's tone, only concern.

"No," he managed and wanted to ask for something to drink, but funnily enough, his eyes couldn't be bothered to stay open. With a sigh, he allowed them to close again; he really was very tired.

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The next time he awoke, the thirst was overwhelming. There was no hand, but he could sense someone else's presence before he had opened his eyes, which was much easier than before.

It was John who was with him, looking tired and unkempt but also relieved.

Sherlock couldn't get out a single sound and John fortunately had the common sense to offer him some water before trying to talk to him.

Sherlock regarded him, still feeling woozy but remembering now, recalling what had happened. He must be high on morphine, because he didn't feel any pain; floaty, more likely. Was that a word? He'd ask... no. Was unimportant. John was important. Lovely, loyal John who apparently had not gone home in the meantime, and of course he didn't know what had transpired. Mary. Sherlock needed to talk to her, tell her he'd help her. John needed to know, needed to see that Mary hadn't had another choice. Sherlock knew how that felt, thank you very much, Jim from IT. He would have saluted him, he thought giddily, if he had felt like he could move. Hm... on second thought, maybe there was more than just morphine in that drip. Really, he felt rather floaty. Now, _was_ that a word at all? _Focus_, he told himself.

"Mary," he croaked, noting with satisfaction that his voice was much stronger than before. Now what was he going to say?"

John looked amused: "Had some sweet dreams?" he asked, obviously not following but drawing some entirely wrong conclusions. Well, there wasn't much to follow yet, Sherlock had to concede. And John had never been that quick on the uptake anyway. He was looking at the machine next to Sherlock's bed now: "Readings are looking good," he said, "you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Why was he talking about feet? Sherlock couldn't even feel his feet right then because of all the... floatiness. Best to close his eyes for a bit, probably.

Within seconds, he was asleep again.

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Once he was able to stay awake for longer and the medication wasn't addling his mind as badly (nor were his parents around any longer) he felt not only exhausted but battered; John had reluctantly told him that he had in fact been subjected to cardiopulmonary resuscitation as a direct result of his heart having stopped. The very fact was more difficult to grasp than he'd expected. It was good that John had been there, because he understood what was going on in Sherlock's mind, how it felt to know how close a shave it had been.

Sherlock had decided not to tell him about Mary; if he did, John was very likely to go and do something he'd later regret. No, there had to be another way, a way which ensured John'd understand, make him forgive his wife... with a shaking hand, Sherlock reached for the regulation of his morphine drip. He needed to think.

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**To Be Continued**

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	2. Mary, Revealed

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**Their Best Man**

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Part 2: Mary, Revealed

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At one point during that long, seemingly everlasting night, John Watson became aware that his left palm was bleeding. He had balled up his fist into a tight knot once too often and hadn't even realized when he had broken the skin, too distracted by the mercilessly reeling thoughts in his mind, the loud rhythm of his own heart in his ears.

It became slightly erratic when he thought of his wife, thrown off kilter by the unwelcome revelations about her past and what she had done to his best friend. Whose heart had been beating erratically as well when they arrived here - _here _being the private hospital Sherlock had escaped from earlier-, though in his case, the problem, if caused by the same person as John's, was much more serious. At least he had not, as predicted, flatlined in the ambulance, but it had been a close call.

And now John was left to wait again while Sherlock was in surgery, both of them put in the same situation they had been in only days earlier, and once more, it had all been caused by Mary. A fresh wave of red, hot anger surged through John as he saw her face in front of his inner eye, replayed the scenes in Leinster Gardens and 221B in his head.

How could he ever trust her again? How was he going to look forward to the child she was carrying, _their_ child? An assassin's child, and his?

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It didn't matter now. With all the resolve he could muster, he forced his thoughts to return to Sherlock. Once John had been able to see through the haze of cold fury and disappointment he had felt when he had made Mary explain, he had for the first time that night truly taken in the sight of his friend who was being tended to by the paramedics, had consciously registered how wretched he looked, the sounds of pain he couldn't subdue any longer.

It had torn at his heart violently, much more so in fact than his wife's betrayal. Because Sherlock had deliberately taken the risk to release himself from hospital way too early and aggravate his injuries in order to make John see. He could have just told him who'd shot him, but he knew it'd have destroyed everything. Instead, he therefore staged a show-down, forcing husband and wife to face each other, to try and make John understand _why_ Mary had done it.

He didn't _want _to understand, John thought stubbornly, digging his nails into his palm once more and then wincing at the pain, he didn't want Sherlock to protect Mary. And yet, the detective had been true to his vow, the vow he had made on a seemingly long-ago day, a happy day.

Could happiness be unmade in retrospect, John wondered, because all he felt when thinking of his wedding right then was a cold lump in his stomach.

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Think of Sherlock, he reminded himself. Sherlock, who had nearly given his life a second time, not counting his rooftop stunt, in order to preserve John's... what? Happiness? Sanity? Life as he knew it? No, John decided grimly, Sherlock didn't think like that. He'd probably had had the baby in mind.

_Wrong_, a small but distinctive voice in his head protested. _He does care about your happiness, you know that_.

With agonizingly slow movements, because anything else seemed impossible, John crouched down in one corner of the waiting room, scrunched up his face and wept.

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Later, he was allowed to see Sherlock.

He had calmed down after a while, and the tears had had a rather cathartic effect. Yet when he entered Sherlock's room in the ICU, he immediately felt distraught again; it had been dreadful the first time and it was dreadful now. Sherlock's face was ashen, his lips seemed white. He looked... depleted, and John's stomach was churning for a moment.

A few nights ago, he'd at least had the reassuring thought in his mind that Mary was there, which had been strangely comforting. Now he felt shabby for even thinking that.

_Human error_, he thought bitterly. He looked down at his friend's motionless form and tried to blink the fresh tears away; back in 221B, a few hours earlier, he had been so furious, so mind-numbingly crestfallen, that he had failed to see what Sherlock was actually doing. He had yelled at the detective, for heaven's sake, had even threatened to knock him out, ignoring how his friend had swayed on his feet because he couldn't deal with that on top of everything else.

John still couldn't quite comprehend why Sherlock kept defending Mary after what she'd done, but even before the paramedics had arrived he had left the thin red line between hate and gratitude he had felt ever since Leinster Gardens. All of his resentment of Sherlock, of his _knowing_, had in fact melted away in the ambulance.

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He hadn't called Mycroft this time; he had been informed that Sherlock was stable for the time being, there was no need to give the older Holmes a scare at this time of night. He had been terrified enough the first time, had looked like a ghost while they were waiting, clutching the handle of his umbrella so hard his knuckles were white.

Now however it was only Sherlock and John. The detective looked exhausted even in his drug-induced sleep, and John felt ashamed about his earlier accusations; he couldn't have wished for a more loyal friend than this lunatic who called himself a high-functioning sociopath. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's more firmly, trying not to think of the fact that Mary hadn't shown any sign of remorse that it had been her doing, her fault that his friend was lying here, having nearly died twice.

John bit his lip; Sherlock had asked him to trust Mary. Clearly, he saw something in her which made him think she was worth it, after all.

He shook his head, briefly closing his eyes before returning his gaze to his unconscious friend who looked alarmingly frail right then: "You were wrong, Sherlock," he murmured, "all that matters right now are _you_. Not Magnussen, not... her." He didn't permit himself to think of the baby when it already hurt so much not to say Mary's name; her assumed name, chosen for her false identity. A fa_ç_ade, just like the two houses in Leinster gardens. A shattered reality.

John shook his head once more: "I'm sorry," he whispered, aware that his voice was trembling, "but I think you'll have to get used to the chair blocking your view of the kitchen again."

At least as long as he couldn't bear the thought of sharing the same bed with Mary. Moving back into 221B might provide a temporary solution; not without Sherlock though. Swallowing around the awfully persistent lump in his throat, John remembered how devastatingly empty the flat had been after Sherlock's alleged death.

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His eyes were brimming again as he blindly groped for Sherlock's hand, needing something to hold on to; if further complications arose and the detective didn't survive this, John'd not only lose his best friend but the one reliable element in his life that he had left.

Shakily, he exhaled, telling himself to buck up and that he was _not_ going to lose Sherlock again.

"You promised," he said a few minutes later, somewhat more steady, "you made a vow that you'd always be there for me." He knew that Sherlock probably couldn't hear him, but he felt better for having said it.

Gently, he reinforced his grip around his friend's hand once more; he was determined to take Sherlock up on his word.

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.

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	3. A Space to Fill a Lack

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**Their Best Man**

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Part 3: A Space to Fill a Lack

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Redbeard was there again. Sherlock could feel him, a reassuring, warm weight next to his hip. The dog yawned, as usual ending on a funny little yip. From the content sounds which followed, Sherlock could tell that Redbeard was settling down comfortably and about to fall asleep, the good sort of sleep he'd wake up from again. Sherlock wanted to touch him; the Irish Setter's fur was velvety soft, especially around the ears and the pads under his paws. The detective couldn't lift his hand though, it was too heavy. For a moment, disappointment made itself known, but he was too tired to dwell on it; at least Redbeard was with him and wouldn't disappear so quickly. The thought was immensely comforting, and he listened to his dog's quiet snuffling until he dozed off again, unaware that it was John who was sitting with him, John who wouldn't dream of going to sleep right then because he was keeping vigil.

He didn't dare to leave his friend's side after Sherlock's second round of surgery. He had gotten through it without any major complications, but he was visibly worse for wear afterwards; the way he had risked his life was taking its toll on him. He had developed an infection and, as a result, a rather persistent fever which left him even more drained than the original trauma.

In fact, during the first days after Leinster Gardens, as John secretly called it because he couldn't bear to think of it too much once his initial murderous fury had died down, Sherlock was so depleted that he mainly slept, a sleep which was bordering on unconsciousness; when he woke, he was barely lucid.

It was frightening enough to keep John at his side, or at least in or near the room when other people were there. The number of those who were allowed into the ICU was limited though, which was a blessing. John couldn't imagine having to contend with most of everyone they knew. Sherlock's parents came to visit of course, taking up residence in a hotel nearby, but Mycroft was doing his best to lure them into the cafeteria or outside to get some air a few times; Mrs Holmes' continuous, quiet sobbing in the background and the crestfallen, anxious look on Mr Holmes Senior's face was hard to bear, which even the British Government seemed to have realized. Just as hard as it must be for Sherlock's parents to see him like that, John thought. If _he _was distraught because Sherlock seemed entirely too vulnerable, too ill, too weak, it had to be much worse for his mum and dad, who had known him his entire life, remembered him as a child.

To be fair, Mycroft was rather quiet as well, if more composed than during the night of the shooting. If he was suspicious about the circumstances of Sherlock's dis- and reappearance, he didn't let it on.

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Of course, Mycroft was aware that something had been badly off, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy to investigate; for once, he thought he had an inkling what it must be like as a goldfish. His thoughts were too slow for his own liking, weighed down by the worry about his brother. The others didn't need to know how much he actually cared for Sherlock, always had. So he waited for an opportunity, which came one night when John, overwhelmed by his fatigue, had fallen asleep in a chair by Sherlock's bed.

Silently, Mycroft stepped closer, his eyes roaming over his brother's haggard face, his thin arms, the face again; Sherlock's features seemed tense even in sleep, and Mycroft wished he could smoothe whatever the reasons away, allow the boy some rest. A fine sheen of sweat was covering Sherlock's forehead; that, at least, Mycroft was able to help with. He took a cloth from the nightstand and gently dabbed at Sherlock's face just as John had done occasionally. The skin still was far too warm, Mycroft noted unhappily, despite the antipyretics.

"You never do anything by half, do you, Sherlock," he said softly, a statement rather than a question. Putting the cloth back, he folded his fingers around the safety railing and just looked at his brother, catching himself at wishing all this was over. It was with a bit of a surprise that Mycroft Holmes realized that he, who had watched Sherlock being beaten by that Serbian without so much as batting an eye, found it nearly unbearable to witness his younger brother like this, mostly unconscious, defenseless, _still_.

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Mrs Holmes calmed down a bit when Sherlock's condition, even though it was not improving, at least didn't deteriorate further. Since she couldn't do anything for her younger son and was vigorously fended off by her older son, she put her energy into taking care of John, smuggling food and the occasional coffee in for him. He didn't feel like eating or drinking, but he made an effort to appreciate it.

Inevitably, Sherlock's mother asked about Mary, wondering why she hadn't come by at all; John, with all the self-composure he could muster, said she was afraid of contracting something, what with illnesses abound in a hospital, and Mrs Holmes seemed content with the explanation, even though it sounded lame in John's own ears.

On the few occasions that he actually stepped outside, he noticed that he had lost count of the time and date but found he didn't care. His thoughts were with Sherlock; whenever they strayed into Mary territory, he immediately forced himself not to go there. And it wasn't that difficult, really, because he couldn't shake off the disappointment, the knowledge that he had been betrayed. The small voice in his mind he'd come to call 'the troublemaker' insisted on pointing out that Sherlock could have voiced his suspicions about Mary a long time ago, but John deliberately ignored that too; Sherlock had paid the price for this stupidity, he decided, no need to dwell on that.

In fact, it only took one look at his friend in his current state to make himself feel guilty, as unreasonable as he knew, deep down, as it was. He didn't understand why Mary hadn't chosen to shoot at a limb if she had only wanted to incapacitate Sherlock; she must have known that the spot she actually hit guaranteed more than a flesh wound but was bound to cause internal bleeding and therefore, was seriously dangerous.

John shook his head, concentrating on Sherlock, who currently was being agitated, muttering under his breath. It was mostly unintelligible, though John caught the odd word: "Redbeard," for example, was something Sherlock repeated a few times before he fell silent again.

John asked Mycroft about it one morning while the nurse on duty was busy in Sherlock's room: "Who's Redbeard?" he asked, thinking he'd read that name before. "A famous pirate, I gather?"

Mycroft looked surprised: "No," he then replied, curtly, taking on a pensive, almost pained expression for a moment: "Redbeard was our dog."

"Your _dog_." It was the least thing John had expected.

"An Irish Setter, to be precise," Mycroft continued, "our father brought him home from a shelter when Sherlock was five. They took an instant liking to each other and were rather inseparable." He smiled, briefly, before sighing: "Unfortunately, Redbeard developed osteosarcoma when Sherlock was eleven. He never forgave my parents for putting the dog down." Mycroft was never going to forget the screams, the desperate crying. Sherlock had known that it had been for Redbeard's sake, that his parents didn't want the dog to suffer, and yet- he'd needed to blame _some_one.

For a whole month, Sherlock didn't speak a word, hid from the world whenever possible, barely ate. It taught Mycroft how a broken heart looked like, what kind of havoc feelings could wreak. Whichever damage Sherlock did to himself in the years to come, caused by drug abuse and a reckless lifestyle, it did not once leave him as hollowed and bereft as the loss of his faithful childhood companion.

John didn't know what to say. He was surprised, as Sherlock seemed as indifferent to animals as he often was to people.

"I think it was one of the reasons why my brother turned to science later on," Mycroft mused, pensively, "learning to appreciate reliable facts which are calculable most of the time."

John considered this: "Which probably is also why he turned away from it again at one point. It's lacking a certain thrill, after all."

Mycroft gave him a thin smile: "True," he acknowledged, and it sounded almost approvingly.

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When the fever finally began to abate, the overall relief was palpable.

John temporarily moved back into Baker Street. Well, it was maybe less of a move and more of a preferring the flat to being in his and Mary's house. In fact, he only returned there once, in the middle of the night, feeling like a ghost. A burglar, more likely, though the term caused him far too much pain to bear thinking about, reminding him of_ the_ night again, the watershed between _now_ and _then_.

He snuck through the rooms on silent feet, collecting the few items he wanted to take with him, and stopped in front of the bedroom door, unable to go on for an unaccounted amount of time. It was tempting to pretend nothing had happened, to simply crawl into bed with his wife and hold her close, because he missed her more than he could comprehend and in the dark of the night, a lot of things looked different. And yet, it was impossible. Too vivid were the unbidden mental images of Sherlock which now assaulted him, from the ride in the ambulance for example, or more recently, of Sherlock in his hospital bed, feverish and ill and completely bereft of his usual energy.

Silently, numbly, John padded over to the wardrobe and opened the door, pulling out a few folded shirts and one jumper. He stopped dead when Mary turned and mumbled something, but she didn't wake up. After that, he didn't have the nerve to open his dresser, since the drawers were squeaking. Sod the underwear, he told himself, he'd buy new stuff. And he could always borrow an old t-shirt of Sherlock's to sleep in.

As quietly as he had come, he fled.

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He spent a lot of time in the hospital, more time than he could actually afford. He had given up his dayjob at the surgery, admittedly with a feeling of secret relief, though he'd eventually have to find something else. At least the house belonged to Mary, there was no rent to pay, and he hadn't sorted out his old room with Mrs Hudson yet, but none of it seemed important.

Sherlock was all that mattered, just as he had told his friend.

Even though Sherlock was on the mend, he seemed permanently exhausted and only had the desire to sleep. He wouldn't look at the papers John brought him and hardly ever talked.

He did ask John about Mary once, soon after the darned fever had finally ceased, but didn't insist when John simply pursed his lips and refused to answer, only murmured: "Talk to her," in a barely audible voice, shortly before falling asleep.

"What do _you_ know?" John had snapped.

When Sherlock had woken up the next time, John had apologized to him.

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It seems we're still not done with this yet, therefore:

**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.

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	4. Mary, the Aftermath

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**Their Best Man**

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Part 4: Mary, the Aftermath

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Mary was pacing, cursing under her breath all the while.

This wasn't supposed to have happened, it simply wasn't. Why on earth did Sherlock Holmes of all people have to come in just as she had been about to shoot Magnussen?

Her heart was beating in her throat as she recalled his voice, his expression; he had been so certain she wouldn't pull the trigger on him, certain that she was too fond of him, wouldn't want to upset John. And yet- she didn't have a choice, did she?

It hadn't exactly been her best shot. She had been upset, thrown off track by the detective's appearance and the realization what the consequences had to be, inevitably, and it had been the first time she could remember that she had become nervous. She had managed to hide it, and yet- she still wasn't sure whether she wanted the bullet to hit Sherlock where it had hit him, or whether she had intended to aim at a less life-threatening spot. It had been too confusing, too close to home in the literal sense of the word.

She cursed again, biting on the nail of her thumb; she hadn't lied about Sherlock, she did like him. A mistake, she told herself, always a mistake to become too attached. Only it hadn't supposed to be like this. Her old life should have stayed hidden away, forgotten by anyone but her. Everything had been fine until Magnussen had reared his ugly head. The minute Sherlock had read his 'telegram' out loud at the wedding, Mary had known that she'd have to stop the man.

It had taken months of careful planning, complicated by the fact that she was married and pregnant now and couldn't move as freely as before, but she had finally made a plan. Janine had unknowingly helped her; a few girls' nights out with lots of booze involved (at least for all who weren't with child) had brought about the necessary information she had still needed. And now she wondered which cruel kind of fate had allowed John and Sherlock to break into Magnussen's office on exactly the day she had chosen to terminate the man?

She scoffed at nothing in particular, shaking her head; it wasn't fair.

It also wasn't fair to lie to John, but she had, not only in pretending to be someone she actually wasn't, but also today, tonight. He had called her from the hospital, voice flat and desperate, to tell her that Sherlock had been shot and the outlook wasn't good.

A small part of her, the part which she usually managed to keep under lock and key because it frightened her and made her ashamed of herself, was relieved; if Sherlock didn't survive, her secret remained safe, at least as safe as it could be in the hands of Charles Augustus Magnussen. And yet, the other part of her, the part which consisted of Mary Watson, nurse, friend to her husband's Best Man, wanted to cry.

There was no ideal solution, of course not; if Sherlock survived, she'd have to make sure he didn't tell John. How she'd go about that, she had no idea. She doubted he'd be intimidated by her, not even now that he knew. She'd have to wait until he was better and see about her possibilites. Maybe she could use John or Mrs Hudson in order to reinforce her point (she avoided to think 'blackmail'); maybe, if she was very, very lucky, Sherlock wouldn't remember anything at all. The chances of that were probably slim though, and it'd be even worse because she'd never know if he'd one day miraculously regain those memories.

It'd be easiest to kill him, finish what she had started. Only she couldn't. Despite all her years of active service and the fact that she had already shot him once, she couldn't even imagine to really end his life just to save hers. It was one thing to act under pressure, but it was an entirely different affair if you had time to think about it. And Sherlock, that damn, annoying, man, kept sneaking up on her- she found herself remembering some rather endearing situations and realized just how much she liked him. Loved him, in fact, the way it should be in an ideal world.

No, she concluded, cursing again, killing him definitely was not an option. She'd have to be very careful, of course, but she'd somehow manage to keep her secret. What she was going to do about Magnussen, she had no idea; for now, she needed to focus on the problems more close too home, literally speaking.

Subconsciously, she put one hand on her belly, feeling the baby bump under her blouse: it wasn't only herself she was protecting, after all.

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.

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